


Awakening Outside Rivergrove

by fanspired



Series: The Personal Demon [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bondage, Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Possessed Dean, Top Dean, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:53:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1189272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanspired/pseuds/fanspired
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: After a night of hard drinking Sam wakes up to find himself cuffed naked to the bed, and his brother in the grip of a demon with an unorthodox agenda. Masks are ripped off, walls crumble and feelings are exposed as Sam and Dean are forced to confront their hidden desires.<br/>Context: Season 2, between CROSSROADS and CROATOAN.<br/>Setting: A motel en route to Rivergrove</p><p>Disclaimer: I write for love only. Based on characters created by Eric Kripke</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awakening Outside Rivergrove

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first ever SPN fanfic, written in 2011 while I was still watching season 2, and originally posted on the Sam/Dean Slash archive, then Sinful Desires. In retrospect, it might be a little naive and cliche. Seems tying Sam down is a very common trope in fanfiction. I've been told by an academic that it's a metaphor for the fanfiction writer appropriating and taking possession of the canonical text. I'm cool with that :)
> 
> This is the second story of a trilogy, but can be read as a stand alone story.
> 
> Stories in this series:
> 
> 1\. Sleeper  
> 2\. Awakening Outside Rivergrove  
> 3\. The Last Memory of the Impala

When Sam woke up his head was throbbing and he had a vague recollection of tequila shots the night before. The last thing he clearly remembered was singing karaoke with Dean. Christ! How smashed had they been? The morning light was painful as he opened his eyes and saw Dean’s dark silhouette hovering over him. The rest of their dingy motel room began to form around him, then the next two external facts he became aware of in quick succession were that he was naked and that he’d been handcuffed to the headrest of his bed. The memory of Dean lifting the cuffs from a cop in the last town came back with significance.  
  
“What the fuck, Dean?!” he snapped angrily. The chain grated against the metal bars of the headrest as his wrists twisted in the cuffs. “I thought we’d agreed to stop this prank shit!”  
  
Dean sported a sly grin. “Oh, this is no prank, little brother.”  
  
Something jarred. Something in the voice, in the eyes, in the twist of the lips was _wrong_. Sam’s guts began to tighten into a cold knot. The residual fug from the previous night cleared suddenly as his heartbeat began to race and the facts of his predicament pressed home. It occurred to him that he was as vulnerable as he had ever been. “You’re not Dean,” he breathed.  
  
“Oh, Dean’s here,” The man – Dean – whatever it was – tapped his head. “He’s just not driving. Know what I mean?” He dropped down on the bed beside Sam and sat with his arm across Sam’s body, his hand resting lightly against his side. Sam was uncomfortably aware of the warmth emanating from the fingers. He kicked against the bedclothes and tried to wriggle up the bed, away from Dean’s hand, but there was nowhere to go.  
  
“Oh, don’t look so worried, Sam. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not that kind of demon.”  
  
“What do you want?” Sam strained in earnest against the cuffs but they were tight against his wrists; there was no room to manoeuvre.  
  
“This isn’t about what _I_ want, Sam.”  
  
“What is it about, then?” He was making no progress. His efforts were just chafing his skin and nothing else. He was screwed unless he could get help from Dean. “Dean, can you hear me? You’ve got to fight! You’ve got to come back to me, man. I know you can beat this thing, you’ve just got to fight it!”  
  
“He can hear you. He knows what’s going on, and he is fighting. Really. He is. Or he’s trying. But he’s outnumbered, Sam. It’s him against him and me. And he’s losing.”  
  
“What are you talking about?”  
  
“I’m in his head, Sam. He knows what I’m planning. He knows what I’m going to do to you. And he _wants it_.”  
  
Sam froze and a sick feeling settled in his chest. He could no longer avoid seeing the full implications of his situation. “You’re out of your mind,” he said hoarsely.  
  
“You think so?” Dean’s fingers popped the button on his jeans and slowly drew down the zipper so Sam could clearly see the bulge that was straining against his underpants. “That isn’t me. That’s Dean. He just can’t help himself. He wants you so bad it’s killing him. This is my function, Sam; it’s what I do. I get off on making people do the things they really want to do anyway.” He started running his hand over Sam’s chest and torso – warm hand – firm strokes. “You can’t pretend to be surprised, Sam. It’s not like you two lead a normal life: too many hours spent cooped up in that car together; too many nights in cheap motels; too many days spent facing death together. Lines get blurred. Thoughts get weird. Feelings get . . . more than fraternal.” He leaned over, his mouth close to Sam’s ear. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, little brother?” Sam tried to remember this wasn’t Dean talking; it was a demon, a creature, a trickster. But it sounded like Dean; it looked like Dean; it _smelled_ like Dean. He could feel his warm breath on his flesh, disturbing his hair, and it sent a shock of goose-flesh down his back and sides. “Stop calling me that,” he croaked.  
  
“Why does it bother you? Does it turn you on?”  
  
The hand moved down to massage his abdomen and he felt panic rising. He tugged frantically at the cuffs and heard the clang of chain against metal. It was a pointless gesture he knew, he succeeded only in aggravating the welts round his wrists, but it was too humiliating to just lie there submissively and let himself be seduced. Already he could feel his prick swelling and tightening. He turned his head and found himself staring straight into his brother’s eyes, and a sudden thrill washed through his insides when, for a moment, he thought he saw a spark of something he recognized there, but then Dean tried to kiss him and he jerked his head away. “You’re sick!” he shouted. “We’ve met some evil things in our time but you’re just sick . . . and twisted . . . and . . .” but his words stumbled into emptiness as Dean’s hand closed around his prick and began sliding up and down his shaft in long smooth strokes. His own fingers curled around the metal bars of the headrest and he found his hips were moving in time to the rhythm of Dean’s hand. He’d never been handled so expertly before . . . and it had been so goddam long since _anyone_ had . . . had . . .  
  
“Nnngghhuuu … f – fuck!” he gasped.  
  
“Ah, Sam. If you only knew how much you’re turning your brother on right now, how excited he’s getting seeing you, touching you, feeling how hard he’s making you.” Dean’s lips moved over his torso, kissing, licking, biting. “He wants you, Sam, so bad. He just needs you every which way. ”  
  
Sam shuddered, sucked his breath in through his teeth. “Shut up! SHUT UP!”  
  
“He knows what I’m going to do next . . . and he’s aching for it.” He stood up. His lips were pursed in a knowing smile as he unbuttoned his shirt and casually peeled it off his lean-muscled shoulders. “How about you, Sam? Do you want to know?” His jeans fell to the floor, his briefs slid down his tight thighs and joined them, and his long hard prick sprung free from its constraints and stood quivering, tight against his belly. “Shall I tell you what I’m going to do to you?”  
  
Sam swallowed; his breath was coming short and hard. “No,” he whispered.  
  
Dean laughed and slid onto the bed beside Sam. Sam could feel the warmth of body heat glowing down the length of his side as they lay close together, and Dean’s prick throbbed against his hip. His lips were close to his ear again as he murmured softly, “I’m going to take you in my mouth, Sam. I’m going to give your prick a tongue bath like you’ll never forget.” Cupping Sam’s head tenderly in his arm he traced round the back of his ear with the tip of his tongue until Sam was shivering from head to toe. “I’m going to swallow you whole.” He moved over on top of Sam and their lips met for the briefest, lightest touch before Dean’s head began to taxi down his body. Sam closed his eyes and waited . . . tense, expectant.  
  
Dean’s lips circled his hips, his tongue darting teasingly over the flesh, and Sam’s breath caught in his throat every time he felt the warm moist tip brush his prick, or the feather light peck of Dean’s soft lips, or the tantalizing embrace of Dean’s hot breath over his flesh. Again and again Sam thought he was going to – but then he’d draw away at the last moment leaving Sam twitching and aching. He kept the pendulum swinging between anticipation and disappointment until Sam was going mad with it. His hips were chasing Dean’s movements – lifting, shivering, humping, desperately trying to find Dean’s mouth as half articulated thoughts crowded his head . . .  
  
 _Yes . . . no . . . don’t . . . please . . . don’t . . . stop . . . yes . . . fuck yes . . . fuck . . . oh fuck you! . . . oh god yes . . . please . . . please please please please_ “DO IT! DO IT!” _Oh fuck, that was out loud!_ “Dean! Please! Just do it! _Please!_ ”  
  
Dean looked up and as their eyes met Sam saw the mingled triumph and desire there, and Sam prayed – just _prayed_ – that Dean was really in there, wanting this too, that it really was Dean he was giving in to. He wanted it to be Dean. He needed it to be. _Please, god, let it be Dean . . ._  
  
And Dean’s mouth closed over Sam’s prick, his tongue embracing him, sliding and revolving sinuously over and around his flesh. Sam’s eyes fluttered closed, his back arched, his fingers grasped and ungrasped the bars of the headrest and he vented a long ululating moan as the last vestiges of resistance he had felt melted in a puddle of sated pleasure. Dean was fucking him with his mouth now, burying Sam’s prick deep in his throat. Much more of this and Sam was going to come, he knew it - but, just as it seemed inevitable Dean drew away again.  
  
 _Oh don’t stop now don’t stop now for fuck’s sake, Dean, don’t stop!_  
  
Dean’s hand closed around him, slid to the top of his prick and squeezed hard. After a moment, Sam found the immediate urge to come had subsided. Then Sam watched as Dean slid two of his fingers into his mouth and drew them out again wet and glistening. At first Sam thought he was just being suggestive, then it hit him what Dean was going to do and resistance flared in him once more. He started kicking his way up the bed again but Dean simply slid his arm behind Sam’s back, dragged him back down the bed and, in the same fluid motion, thrust his fingers deep inside Sam.  
  
Sam groaned and shuddered at Dean’s touch, as his fingers moved inside Sam, exploring, finding sensitive places, loci of pleasure Sam hadn’t known he even had. And Dean’s mouth sought him out once more and swallowed him, and he was nothing but a shivering wreck of pleasure. Then suddenly Dean was on top of him, his face level with Sam’s, his wide eyes dark with lust, and Sam felt Dean’s prick between his thighs.  
  
A surge or panic bubbled into Sam’s chest. So many barriers had crumbled already, but this was different. This crossed a line. This scared Sam. “Dean, wait . . . don’t do this. Dean, you’ve got to hear me, you’ve got to - _Jesus Christ! DEAN DON’T!_ ”  
  
Dean’s body flinched and drew back suddenly. He looked up and straight into Sam’s face and, at last, Sam knew that he was looking at the real Dean, into his own brother’s wide, sad, beautiful eyes. They stared at each other. Both their chests were heaving with wild, ragged gasps while it seemed that the moment itself was holding its breath. Then Sam realized he could still feel Dean’s hard prick convulsing hungrily against his flesh. A dark and tortured shadow crossed Dean’s features and he looked away and swallowed hard.  
  
“I won’t hurt you, Sammy. I swear to god, I won’t hurt you.”  
  
“Dean? . . . What … Dean . . . ? . . . no, _wait!_ – ”  
  
It did hurt at first, even with Dean trying to be careful, but as fear melted away it felt good, too. It felt achingly, overpoweringly good to feel Dean inside, deep inside him, filling him - filling the hollow empty space that he’d nursed inside himself ever since Jessica died, maybe since even before that. Dean reached out to him and buried his hands in his hair, clinging to his head as he sought Sam’s mouth with his own. He kissed him with a fierce yet tender passion, his full lips moving warm and soft against Sam’s while his tongue thrust deep into Sam’s mouth - and Sam embraced it, unreservedly, he was holding nothing back now. His hands tugged absently and frustratedly at the cuffs but he had no thought of escape, he just wanted his arms free; he wanted to wrap them around Dean and hold him close and safe forever. He drew up his knees and folded his long legs across Dean’s back, knitting him into his tight embrace. He was completely relaxed and open now, giving himself up to Dean absolutely, moving with him, breathing with him, answering his brother’s broken guttural grunts with his own long, low quivering moans as urgency and need drove them both toward the point where they found each others’ ecstasy waiting for them, and it didn’t hurt any more.  
  
. . .  
  
Dean lifted his head and Sam could see where the tracks of tears stained his sweat-damp face. For a moment, an age, they were in each others’ eyes, and a world of unspoken things hung between them . . . . .  
  
Maybe it was too much for Dean, the feelings too naked, the intimacy too raw and exposed for him. He wiped his face on the bed covers, jumped off the bed and hurried into his clothes. He couldn’t get his pants on fast enough. Fumbling with shaking hands in his jacket pocket he found the key to the cuffs and unlocked them without meeting Sam’s gaze, then picked up their dad’s journal and moved to the far side of the room. He stood in the corner with his back to the room, rifling aggressively through the pages of the book.  
  
Sam dressed more slowly. His mind felt numb and torn. A part of him wanted to reach out to Dean, hold him, tell him not to be afraid, but he was scared of being pushed away.  
  
After a few moments he cleared his throat and Dean waited tensely to hear what he would say. “Anything?” he asked tentatively.  
  
Dean relaxed perceptibly but his voice was strained when he replied. “No. It’s not here. But I’m gonna find it.” He dropped the journal and it hit the table with a thud. “Pack up. I’ll go pay.” He crossed the room in a couple of strides but hesitated with his hand on the door handle. “I’m gonna kill it, Sam. I won’t let it get away with what it did to you, much less . . . much less making me do it.” Then the door slammed and he was gone, without once looking back at Sam’s face.  
  
Something heavy was sinking inside Sam, and an angry resentment began to smoulder once more in his chest. So that’s the way they were going to play it. Dean would pretend the demon never left early, and Sam would pretend he didn’t know better. And nothing would be said. This would be just another thing they never talked about.  
  
And now they were going to hunt Dean’s demon . . . . . but Sam doubted they’d ever find it again. He was even beginning to doubt, just a little, whether there’d ever been anything inside Dean besides too much tequila.


End file.
